Waterglass Mirror
by Sylla
Summary: Time is not a line, but a dimension, and nothing goes away. Joachim's past and present start to converge when he awakens – almost a millennium after his death.
1. Chapter 1

Hello there, reader(s). Sylla here. After a long absence from the world of videogame fanfic, I return at last. (Those people that used to read my Devil May Cry stories – if there are any still around – may find this more to their taste than, ahem, some of my other recent stuff.)

The idea for this fic has actually been knocking around in my head for a while. (This prologue was actually written four years ago, which is why some of it tends to the godawful, despite my having rewritten it.) Before I say anything else, I have to warn you all that yes, this fic does feature an Original Character as the co-protagonist. A _female_ OC, hogosh. Nononono don't click that back button just yet! In my defence, I really _really_ hate Mary Sues. The minute this OC turns into a Sue I swear to god I will kill this story dead.

Thankfully, I have a very capable beta reader to help me avoid that drastic end. So a huge thanks to Kaj-Nrig, for catching my retarded mistakes.

...It's hard to say why, given that Joachim has maybe all of ten lines in LoI, but I find him one of the more memorable characters. (Along with Trevor, and Alucard. :D)

**Disclaimer:** Castlevania and all characters, locations and plotlines thereof are property of Konami. Anything you don't recognize is fruit of my own loom. I am not making any money from or receiving any gifts in exchange for this piece of fanfiction. Incidentally, the line "Time is not a line, but a dimension, and nothing goes away" is—I think—from Cat's Eye. I don't own that, either.

* * *

**Waterglass Mirror**

**Prologue**

---:::---

A breeze.

I can feel it on my face, caressing my cheek, and I know that I am awake. I am... back.

But back from where? A feeling of wrongness floods me, though I cannot say why. A thought flits at the edge of my consciousness and then is gone, leaving only the feeling that I should know, should remember. However, the more I struggle to recall, the more the memories slip away from me, blurred images in the pool of my mind. Like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands.

A crystalline droplet of water falls on my face with a soft _plik_, and I slowly open my eyes. The sight of a stone roof—hewn from solid rock—greets me; further inspection reveals I am in a dark, dank cavern.

And I know I hate it, though the reason why eludes me.

I try to stand, but I am too weak; I manage to raise my upper body before my arms give out, and I collapse unceremoniously back onto the floor. So I close my eyes, rest my head against the cold stone floor, and try to remember what I'm doing... what I _was_ doing here. And why I was here at all. But it's all too indistinct, like a feverish dream.

I can feel strength coming back to me now, as I lie here. I try to stand again, and this time I make it. I stagger to the wall and catch myself; my legs hold out. Just. Slowly, one hand on the wall to catch myself should I falter, I leave this cavern, this... this tomb.

As I emerge, I find a rockslide in front of me, blocking what was undoubtedly once a tunnel. Evidently, the roof collapsed some time in the past, for as I look up I see faint glimmers of light. Strenuously, tortuously, I manage to climb up the mass of stone.

It is almost too much for me. As I collapse on my back at the top, I gaze angrily at my pale, trembling hands. How frustrating to be so weak! I stay until I feel strong enough to go on, and then I stand once more.

I find I am in what was once an ancient castle, now a mere ruin. The tattered remnants of tapestries still decorate the old walls—one crumbles as I brush my hand against it—and once-magnificent glass windows are now cracked and broken. Here and there, sections of the roof have collapsed, and narrow bands of moonlight shine through. Luckily, it is nighttime.

I stop as I catch myself. Luckily?

As I wander the empty halls, it occurs to me that I should have a name. Does not everyone have a name? But that is one more element of my... past, I think... that refuses to make itself clear to me.

I come to a large central courtyard, open to the heavens. Above me, the moon shines down, bathing everything in a soft white glow. To one side lies a sweeping flight of stairs, and these I head for. I don't know why, only that there is something at the top of those stairs that pulls at me, something I need to see.

Suddenly, I trip on some rubble strewn across the courtyard. Throwing my hands out in front of me, I'm barely able to stop myself from falling. I stop to steady myself for a moment, then start to climb the stairs. It is easier this time; the exertion does not cripple me as before. I rest only for a moment, then put a hand on one of the tall doors at the top of the stairs. It falls inward, hinges and latch long rusted away.

Another long series of halls and rooms, each seemingly more splendid than the last, though their grandeur has been cracked and faded by time. I continue onward and upward, without rhyme or reason. Finally, I come to a large room, with another grandiose flight of steps at the far end. The feeling that there is something I should know, or remember, comes back full strength—no, stronger than before. For a brief moment, an image of this room—shining splendid, not a ruin – superimposes on the wreckage I see before me, and accompanying it is a feeling of familiarity. Then the moment passes; the image is gone, but the feeling remains.

One hand resting lightly on the balustrade, I climb the stairs. This time it is as nothing: I am much stronger already. There is another set of doors at the top.

I come out onto another set of stairs leading up to a separate tower—one so structurally unsound I am surprised the roof's the only thing that's collapsed. A feeling somewhere between excitement and foreboding wells up inside of me, and I force myself not to run up the stairs. Even so, my step quickens, and I reach the top in short order. At the end of the stairs there is an ornate set of double doors, with a crest in the shape of a dragon carved on them. The gold paint has flaked and chipped. Unconsciously, I sneer. _How fitting,_ a voice in my head whispers.

These doors I open with hands shaking—not with fear or trepidation but with excitement—and step inside the circular room at the top.

There are signs of destruction here: deep gouges remain on the pillars, despite the erosion of wind and rain. At the far end of the room there is a raised dais, and a crumbling throne upon it.

A throne... Walter's throne.

That feeling!

I remember. I remember everything, now.

My name...

My name is Joachim Armster.

And I am a vampire.

* * *

He's ba-aaaaaack. :D

If any of you are wondering how exactly Joachim came back when Leon whipped him good (I know my beta was wondering), well… all will be revealed in good time.

What? Don't look at me like that; did you really expect me to reveal stuff when it's such a good hook to get people to read subsequent chapters?

Thought not. :P

… I'll give a hint in the next chapter, though.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey.

You know those stories that are written from multiple points of view, from those of the characters to that of an omniscient narrator? Yeah, this is one of those. I'm trying something new: before I've always just chosen either first-person or third-person narrative, and stuck with it. Buuut I figure that, since this is an OC story, I might as well have something to spice it up and keep it interesting for whomever might be reading. (I'm not so arrogant that I'll ask people to actually _care_ about the OC. That has to be earned.)

If it becomes necessary, I'll label who's viewpoint it is, but it should be pretty obvious.

This whole thing might end up being a flop; I don't know. But it seemed like a good idea at the time, so I'm running with it.

Again, thanks to my beta, Kaj-Nrig—even though I disagree about the use of present perfect progressive. :P

* * *

**Waterglass Mirror**

**Chapter One**

---:::---

Coming to rest beside a fallen tree trunk, I stopped and sat to catch my breath. I was in good physical shape, but I had been on this mountain for what seemed like aeons. The going was very rough, and more than once I'd found my way blocked by impassably dense thickets or sheer rock slopes, and had had to turn back. By now, I was exhausted.

I sighed and rested my head briefly on my knees; loose strands of brown hair tickled my cheek. _This never would've happened if I'd just gone with the others!_ I silently lamented. This was a celebratory post-high-school trip for myself and three friends – for _all_ of us. We were supposed to stick together. I smiled slightly. A lot of our other classmates had chosen to go on a cruise to the Caribbean; we had instead opted for rural tourism through Italy and France.

A difference in tastes they found amusing, I was sure.

We were currently in the latter country, and we were due to spend a night camping in the ruins of a mediaeval castle. My friends – Jana, Aiveen, and Lizzie who was English – had left for the castle in the early morning after we'd spent the night at a bed-and-breakfast in a nearby town. But I'd wanted to look around the town's market for a while, and so had stayed behind. I'd set off for the castle at noon with a new hand-woven scarf shoved in my backpack to show for my morning's shopping, confident that my sense of direction wouldn't lead me astray.

Pride, as they say, cometh before the fall.

Although I don't often get lost, when I do I do so spectacularly. _Elena,_ my mother would say, _you never do anything by halves._ My father would just laugh, and comfort his disconsolate five-year-old daughter until she stopped crying.

I got up and, after brief deliberation, started walking in what I thought was the direction of the castle. As I went, I imagined what my friends might be doing at that moment. Jana, the most responsible of us, would have made sure the tent and sleeping bags were set up; Aiveen and Lizzie would have already explored all the nooks and crannies, and the former would be making up ghost stories with which to scare us all.

But imagining was no use if I couldn't find the castle. I frowned, concerned. It was getting worryingly late; the sun's rays were coming through the trees at a steep slant. If I didn't find the castle soon... Checking my cell phone, I wasn't surprised to see that there was no signal. I was, after all, atop a mountain in a very rural area.

This was not good, though. Unable to phone for help, would I have to spend the night in the open? I didn't even have my sleeping bag; Jana had that, and all I had was the long coat I was currently wearing. Could I make it back down to the village? No, it'd be dark before I even got close, and trying to make my way down a mountain in the darkness was sheer stupidity – even if I _did_ have a flashlight. I wondered if there were feral wild animals in these woods– _there!_

I gave a soft cry of relief and delight as I spied a crumbling stone pillar between the trees. Despite being tired, I broke out into a run – but as I did, the strangest thing happened: everything seemed to give a huge _lurch_, as though the world had suffered a sudden slight shift in momentum. I stumbled to a halt and looked around. Everything _seemed_ to be the same. Behind me, the edge of the forest; unchanged. Before me, the (perfectly ordinary-looking, I assured myself) castle wall and towers were visible over a tall wall of rock.

And yet, there was something _strange_ about the stillness. I considered it a moment, then shrugged, shouldered my backpack, and moved on. I would ask Jana, Lizzie and Aiveen if they'd felt it. As I rounded the edge of the rock wall, the entrance to the castle came into view. It was built practically at the edge of a cliff, and a deep cleft in the ground provided a moat of sorts. Surely at some point in history a drawbridge had spanned the distance; although the drawbridge was long gone, an earthquake had caused some boulders and a section of the outer wall to collapse into the rift, effectively forming a bridge.

I frowned. The tourism booklet had said nothing about having to cross a ravine and climb over boulders to reach the castle. Still, it had said that the castle was a fairly popular destination for campers and hikers, so I doubted the rocks were unstable. I gingerly picked my way across weather-beaten stones as big as my torso, heaving a sigh of relief as I hopped down to the other side unscathed.

---:::---

I was _not_ panicking, I told myself firmly. This was true—so far. But I could tell I was breathing too fast; tendrils of anxiety settling in the pit of my stomach, constricting. I stared disbelievingly at the courtyard before me: it was empty, utterly devoid of life. I couldn't see my friends anywhere—and, more worryingly, I couldn't hear their voices, either.

I bit my lip, distressed. _Surely_ they would have reached the castle before me; and we had planned on camping out in the open rather than in any of the inner rooms—even if there were any left—just in case they might turn out to be structurally unsound.

"Hello?" I called. "Jana? Lizzie? Aiveen?" No answer. What if they had gotten lost? After my own unpleasant experience with the mountain, it seemed a distinct possibility. They could be wandering around the forest, unable to phone for help...

Suddenly, from somewhere behind me, I heard a soft _clack_. I whirled around, startled. As I did, my foot struck a small stone, sending it clattering across the ground. I looked down uncertainly. Had that been what had caused the noise: a crumbling stone? The sun had almost fully set by now, and it cast long, uncomfortably deep shadows across the courtyard; I peered in the direction the noise had come from, but could see little.

"Hello?" I called again, and again there was no answer. I had almost relaxed when I heard, again from behind me, the muted sigh of cloth on cloth, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of being _watched_. My hand strayed to the Swiss army knife in my pocket, and I drew it out, unfolding the blade as quickly and quietly as I could with my other hand. I turned again, more slowly.

"Who's there?" I demanded, striving to keep my voice even, although my heart raced with apprehension. "Whoever you are, this is _not_ funny." I paused for a moment as a new thought occurred to me. Lizzie had a fondness for practical jokes.

"Liz, if this is you trying to be funny..." I put a warning note into my voice—although really, by that point I would have been relieved if it _was_ Lizzie. But Lizzie did not answer.

And, in that moment, the last vestiges of sunlight slipped from the courtyard, leaving only dusk.

I caught an impossibly fast blur in the corner of my eye—turned—and before me, so close, stood a man—except his eyes glowed an unholy red! I screamed, slashed wildly with my knife … and then it was knocked out of my hand, both my wrists were locked in an iron grip, and chill fingers rested on my throat.

And then... nothing. For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, I stared into the face of a monster... and the monster did nothing. Then its eyes widened, and it uttered something in a language I didn't recognize. Its grip on my wrists tightened, and it half-shouted something else – that it was some sort of query was obvious by the tone. I flinched in pain and shook my head, trying desperately to get rid of the cool hand on my neck.

"I can't – can't understand–" I gasped.

As quickly as he had appeared, he retreated, the red glow in his eyes dimming, and I collapsed on my knees. I watched, paralyzed, tears of fear pricking my eyes, as the man-monster paced, muttering to himself. Then he turned to me.

"What's this, some trick of Walter's? Who are you?" he demanded.

"W– what?" I stared uncomprehendingly.

"I _said_," he articulated in perfect English, "who are you?"

---:::---

Commence huge long author's note. You don't have to read it if you don't want to, but I like long author's notes so here we are. They provide an interesting insight into the mind of the writer, I feel. (For those that just want that hint, it's near the bottom.)

In case you missed it, her name is Elena. 'Lena to friends. Not that it's important. Anyway. As if it isn't obvious, the monster there is none other than Joachim (who's a bit stuck in the past, as he thinks that Walter's still alive and kicking somewhere), and my poor, hapless OC's gone and gotten herself in way over her head. Quoth my beta: "She'd be perfect in a horror movie."

No, I don't think romance will feature strongly in this fic. I can't say that it won't at all—haven't decided yet; might as well be truthful—but Castlevania is primarily a horror-themed game. Plus, to Elena, Joachim is a monster. Just sayin'.

There _is_ a fair element of campiness along with the horror and action, though—but hopefully this'll fit in with the whole 'Castlevania' feel. After all, a series where the villain STEALS MEN'S SOULS AND MAKES THEM HIS SLAVES has to have _some_ campiness to it.

This chapter clocks in at a more-or-less healthy 1,450 words, author's notes not included. Prologue plus Chapter One are 2,394 words, which is better. I like long chapters, so I'll try to make subsequent chapters lengthier.

Whoops, before I forget! That clue I promised. Okay, here: what was the status of the whip at the point when Leon used it to defeat Joachim? (Bright readers or hardcore fans should know this, easy.)

Reviews are appreciated, as always. Concrit is worshipped.


	3. Chapter 3

That this chapter is here is pretty much entirely thanks to Patricia de Lioncourt. I told myself I wouldn't upload this one until I had the next one written, and thanks to her wonderful review I managed to sit down and dash off a chapter in pretty much a single night.

So: this chapter... has nothing to do with the last one. Or, well, very little. You'll see. I'll say it now: brownie points to anyone who manages to figure the various ins and outs of the plot before they're revealed—it's not _too_ complicated. ;)

As always, many thanks to my capable beta, Kaj-Nrig. Much love and sunshine and other un-vampire-y stuff. (I haven't changed the dashes in order to be consistent with the lat chapter. I still have to look into it.)

**Disclaimer**: is found at the beginning of the fic.

* * *

The town was bustling: it was market day. The pungent odor of livestock mixed with the smell of ripe fruit, meat, dust, and people; the cries of merchants mingled with the exclamations of those they were haggling with. The moving crowd seemed almost to shimmer in the heat as people wove to and fro between the stalls.

Urchins and dogs prowled underfoot; some of the former were playing a game that involved dashing across the narrow market road just in front of pack mules, or other people, provoking angry shouts and oaths.

A little boy in a grubby brown tunic darted in front of a young woman, causing her to drop her basket in alarm. A number of dirt-encrusted mushrooms rolled out onto the ground.

"Gaétan," the young woman called reproachfully. The child stopped and turned.

"Oops. Sorry, Ilyena. I didn't know it was you." He grinned apologetically and scratched the back of his neck. The girl sighed and stooped to pick up the fallen mushrooms.

"You shouldn't play such dangerous games," she admonished. "You cause your mother worry. What if you were to be hurt?" The boy shifted from one foot to the other, looking faintly guilty. Ilyena sighed again, then straightened and smiled slyly.

"Instead of tempting fate, why not help your mother and mine weave? Or…" She looked around. "Why not help that poor woman get her pig across the street?" She pointed to the struggling old crone.

"What?" Gaétan cried, alarmed. Ilyena regarded him sternly for a moment, and as his shoulders drooped in defeat, she began to laugh.

"I jest, I jest! Go, play with your friends; I will do it myself." Putting the last of the mushrooms back in her basket, she put her hands on her hips; with a jaunty wave, Gaétan left to rejoin his friends, and Ilyena made for the old lady.

Just then, a commotion arose at one end of the market street, and a group of men on horseback hurtled around a bend in the road. People scattered like autumn leaves before them, for fear of being trampled. Ilyena, facing the other way, did not notice, for the market was always noisy.

The men were halfway down the market when she stepped boldly into the street.

When she noticed the pounding of horses' hooves, they were mere paces away. Running out of the way would perhaps have been the more sensible option; had Ilyena reacted immediately, there might still have been time to do so. But the thought of the old woman, whom she knew was behind her, flashed in her mind and, without thinking, she stood and cried, "Please, stop!"

She shielded herself ineffectually with her arms—but the expected blow did not come.

When she dared open her eyes, she saw that the man in the lead had halted the party and was now trying desperately to calm down his horse, which had reared up in fright. His men flocked to his aid, but only succeeded in further agitating it. As she stood rooted to the spot, heart hammering in her chest, a burly, black-bearded man dismounted and started menacingly towards her.

"You," he spat. "How dare you impede my lord's progress—even endanger his safety?" Grabbing her roughly by one arm, he threw her to the ground. Raising a fist, he said, "I will teach you your place—"

"Jacques. Enough," someone snapped. The bearded man froze as though he had been physically restrained.

"My lord…" he began uncertainly, and he turned to the man at the lead of the group, who had now managed to calm his steed. Ilyena's view from the ground was largely blocked by the horse, but she saw that he had light hair—she would almost have said it was white. Under the sun, it almost seemed to glow.

The man—nobleman—lifted a pale hand.

"We have no time for this." His voice betrayed his youth; it was commanding, but full of arrogance. "I must return to my father at once, and I require you by my side."

With one last malevolent look at Ilyena, the bearded man remounted his horse. Scarcely believing her good fortune, she scrambled to her feet and dashed out of the way before the horsemen departed.

She stood for a while, looking in the direction they had gone, eyes wide, breathing heavily, until a small voice at her side said, "Ilyena?" She started and turned to see Gaétan. He looked as terrified as she knew she must. She attempted a smile.

"I'm all right," she said, but it came out sounding forced. It was then she noticed two things. One, that there was a small crowd of onlookers staring at her (though most had started to resume their previous activities); and two, her mushrooms had gotten crushed by the horses. And not just the mushrooms, but the basket, too: she'd dropped it as she fell and hadn't picked it up. Ilyena sighed dejectedly; she would have to fetch another and begin anew. As she looked around, she thought ruefully that at least one good thing had resulted from the heart-stopping events: the old lady had not been trampled and had succeeded in moving her pig to the other side of the road.

"Gaétan," she said thoughtfully.

"Hmm?"

"Not a word of this to my parents, all right?"

Gaétan looked at her incredulously. "Word will get around anyway—it's just a matter of time until they find out."

Ilyena sighed. "I know."

---:::---

Jacques did not miss how his master glanced at him before throwing open the wide double doors. He knew the young noble abhorred speaking to his father, and as they stepped into the room, he was once more reminded of why this was so. The Count was a fearsome man, and every inch as arrogant as his son—if not more—without the benefit of greater education that his son had.

The Count stood as they entered. It was a habit of his. He loathed being looked down upon, either metaphorically or literally. Dressed in fine silks and a heavy fur-lined cape, he cut an imposing figure.

"Joachim," he greeted curtly.

"Father." The young man's shoulders were tensed.

"I must admit, I was surprised when you offered to take up the task—this is work more suited to your brothers. I take it by your presence that you were successful—or perhaps you weren't even able to find the bandits?" The Count folded his arms across his chest.

"We found them," Joachim bit out tersely. "They had a hidden camp up in the hills: we were able to ambush them. But I have something more important to speak to you of."

"I see. And is it so important that you had to interrupt my meeting?" The Count gestured with one hand at the person sitting in the chair opposite his: an elderly man with a military bearing, who was watching the proceedings with an amused air.

"Perhaps." Joachim inclined his head. "Father, the reason I wished to go was because I had suspicions about the recent attacks—they were too calculated. At the bandits' hideout, I found evidence that someone has been supplying them with food, weapons—perhaps even information on where and what to strike, though I can't say for sure.

"I believe someone may have been intending to use those bandits to stage an attack on your lands, or on this castle—on you."

The Count was frowning heavily by the end of this. "And you think," he said slowly, "that I do not already know of this?"

Jacques saw his master's jaw twitch. He knew why: Joachim had been the first to draw these conclusions, after seeing the bandits' camp. There was no way the Count could have already known.

"Next time you apply your intellect to something, be sure to bring me information my spies have not already informed me of!" The Count said coldly, and turned away—a clear dismissal.

"Fine." Joachim turned to leave, but stopped a few paces short of the door. "As you seem to be so well-informed," he said, "I'm surprised you haven't chosen to reinforce the castle's defenses."

Then, nodding for Jacques to follow him, he swept from the room.

"Master—" Jacques began, hurrying to keep up.

"It's fine." Jacques didn't need to see Joachim's face to know he was scowling. "Whatever that fool wants to pretend or do is his own concern. At least now he might pay more attention to the castle's security."

They stopped as they came to a rampart; Joachim braced himself on the edge and looked down for a moment before speaking.

"I think I will take a walk in the forest. I need to get clear of this place for a while. See to it that the kitchen prepares the game we hunted."

Jacques bowed low and retreated. When his master felt the need to escape the castle—which was not often—Jacques had learned it was best to stay well clear and not irritate him. It was safer, wiser, and all-around healthier.

---:::---

Ilyena sighed and sat down for a bit, resting against the rough bark of a tree, before getting up again. Her search had taken her quite far—much farther than she would usually go—but she had finally found a small patch of mushrooms.

As she laid her basket on the ground, she wondered for a moment who the fair-haired noble might have been. She didn't think he was related to the Count; although she had never seen the Count himself, his two sons—muscular, bearded young men, both— occasionally rode through the village.

She was uncomfortably aware that she was close to the castle. One encounter with the inhabitants of the castle was enough for her; she wasn't eager for another. Best be done with her task quickly and then head back home.

As though this thought had brought fortune's cruel sense of humor crashing down upon her, a voice sounded behind her.

"Poaching on the Count's lands? I could have you hanged for that."

She sprang upright with a gasp of surprise and fear, the basket tumbling from her hands. Whirling around, she saw the owner of the voice; the young, white-haired nobleman was lounging against the trunk of a tree with a supercilious smile tugging at his lips.

"No—no please I—I wasn't," she stammered, eyes wide. "I didn't know, I was just—just gathering mushrooms—"

The nobleman laughed—not maliciously—and she fell silent, confused.

"Relax," he said. "I'll do you no harm." He paused. "I was only jesting."

There was a thick pause.

"Wh... what?" Ilyena said incredulously. Instantly, her fear was replaced with boiling anger.

"You—how—how can you _jest_ about something like that?!" Her voice rose almost to a shout at the end. In two strides she closed the distance between them and delivered a ringing slap to his cheek.

A painful silence followed as she realized what she had done. Shock was written across the nobleman's pale face; his cheek was slowly turning a delicate shade of pink. Immediately, she dropped her hand as though it had been burned.

"I'm—I'm so sorry, my lord—I didn't mean—"

"It's nothing." He lifted a hand and she stopped. Then he smirked slightly. "Although nothing gives you the right to strike me, I dare say it might have been deserved."

"_Might_ have?"

"Possibly."

"…Thank you." She couldn't tell if she was being truthful or not.

The nobleman pointed at the ground slightly behind her. "You seem to have dropped something," he said. Looking down, Ilyena sighed as she saw the basket lying on its side.

"These wretched things seem to be determined to cause me trouble! If I never see another mushroom I will be content," she lamented as she knelt to pick the basket and its erstwhile contents back up. As she worked, she realized the nobleman was staring at her. The back of her neck prickled, and rather than suffer the silence, she spoke.

"Forgive me if I am too bold… but might I ask who you are?" She almost winced as she said it; it had come out far too indelicately. The nobleman paused before answering.

"My name is Joachim Armster."

"Armster? But that's the name of…"

"The Count? Yes; he is my father."

"But you look nothing like your brothers!" Ilyena really did wince this time: she had spoken without thinking. Luckily, the noble—Joachim—seemed to find it amusing.

"Fortunately, I do not favor my father in looks… or wit."

Ilyena bit back a smile, but noticed that although he had spoken lightly, there had been an edge to his words. She decided not to say anything further, and instead stood and faced Joachim.

"My lord willing, I shall take my leave." She bowed her head and, barely waiting for a nod of acknowledgment, strode past him. As she left, she wondered if he gazed after her. But she couldn't tell; she was no keener an observer than the next person—and the fair-haired nobleman unnerved her. She was not about to look back.

It was an inauspicious start, but nonetheless, a start it remained.

* * *

So... yeah. Joachim's human here.

This chapter is about 600 words longer than the previous one. And the next one will be even longer... which is good, at least for me. I abhor really short chapters, and I don't like to think I'm short-changing my readers whenever I update.

In all honesty, I'm not as fond of this chapter as I am of the last one, or the next one. I think I like Elena more than I do Ilyena, really.

Man, I really should work on how I finish my chapters. I don't like it at all.


End file.
